Everyone has at least one weakness. Those who are “successful” have figured out how to milk their strengths and hide their shortcomings. Boy, do I wish I could do that.
With all the analysis of my failures—picking apart where things go wrong along to way—I see no clear path to resolution. This is concerning. I’d like to say I can fix where I’ve failed but I just don’t know anymore. My reputation is tarnished and my confidence shot. But it’s not that. It’s a mediocre IQ in a sea of at least above average. It’s not knowing how to interact with people in a normal way—every interaction that seems even remotely close to “normal” is one that has drained my energy for hours. And I still second guess every little thing I said. I don’t know what to say, or slack for that matter.
I’m sad. Sad because I got my hopes up—sad because I thought maybe this time the outcome would be different. I take full responsibility for my actions and inaction. At the end of the day, it was and always will be my personality that drags me down.
If only I could be liked—then maybe all the rest would fall into place. If only the words that come out of my mouth would seem authentic, if only I could confidently make eye contact and inspire others to action. If only. If I were excellent at anything perhaps that would be enough. But I’m mediocre across the board. I don’t belong here. Yet here I am. And I fight for it. I fight for it because I can’t accept that I’m not meant for this league. This group of exceptionals who masterfully check off their to-dos of the day, one by one, in mad sprints between back-to-back meetings and Peloton rides and effortless colleague banter. This collection of Type As who I always admired but could never emulate. Who always glance at my tangled everything with a bit of intrigue and, for those capable of it, a momentary tinge of empathy—how sad it is to examine what could be a quite useful contributor and instead waste the space my flesh takes up with a human error. A person clearly incapable of follow through, despite best intention. A woman who, only after scolding so harsh she cries for hours, can put out her best work, when her demons are temporarily drowned in a sea of self flagellation. To feel safe to push ahead only when others see her as a lost cause—pathetic. Hopeless. An utter failure.
I appreciate the silence after that storm. Sure, it fills me with the same recycled tears I’ve spilled since I was aware of being me. But there is a freedom there. No where to sink to. Rock bottom is, clearly, where I find strength. How depressing. What a waste.
I’m ashamed and embarrassed all over again. Grateful, and in many ways lucky, for the second and third chances. But still knowing the direction I’m headed. Not confused or shocked or any of that. Just frustrated, exhausted, and sad. Scared. No, terrified. Trying to swim upstream hovering inches away from a waterfall. How long can I fight the current?
There must be a way to stabilize. I don’t know if that’s pills or yoga or a lobotomy or what. It’s a year since my self-diagnosed manic episode and at least this time around the sun I’m just sad. I think the sadness eventually trips over to mania because all my systems break and go into full self destruct mode. It’s the end of the line. Seeking punishment for the sin of merely existing as I do. Seeking something to take control of everything that is so very unbound and unwound. Not to make me feel better about any of it. Just to bring quiet. To stop trying to be something I’m not but instead to be rightfully punished for who I am. Whoever that is. Clearly someone broken. Who can’t play the game or even fake it. I guess depression and mania aren’t so far separated in that way. That world is round. I won’t fall too far in either direction again. I won’t let myself. But every inch of me hurts. Every inch of me is torn apart in simply trying to function as an acceptable anything.
In that sense, I guess I’m doing incredibly well. Hiding who I am. Maybe not succeeding at making up for all the gaps in my abilities, but in the least, surviving. And I ought to be grateful for that. Quietly grateful as I hold my breath and continue to swim furiously upstream, letting my ego crumble, doing whatever it takes to never go over.
life with interest 